


a framework problem

by tunnelOFdawn



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Illness, M/M, Major Character Death in one AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunnelOFdawn/pseuds/tunnelOFdawn
Summary: In all worlds, Matoba Seiji and Natori Shuuichi find each other.Five worlds: canon divergent, gods, dragons, sentinel/guide, and musicians.
Relationships: Matoba Seiji/Natori Shuuichi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	a framework problem

> "The world doesn’t know what to do with my love. Because it isn’t used to being loved. It’s a framework problem."
> 
> \- _Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper_ , Richard Siken

**exorcists (world zero)**

“If you’re a good exorcist,” Seiji says, “then you don’t grow old.”

The fall of Seiji’s loose hair disguises his expression from Shuiichi. Shuuichi does not want to see the smile he knows lurks there. Seiji, with that devastating half-smile of his that makes Shuuichi loathe himself. He opts to watch the way Seiji’s long fingers massage wax along the length of his bowstring. This, too, will undo him.

“All those men with grey hair and wrinkles,” Seiji continues, “are the mediocre leftovers.” He wraps a piece of leather around the string in a neat loop. Carefully, he runs the loop of leather up and down the bow string. A meditative air smooths out his features.

“What sort of exorcist do you think I am then?” Shuuichi cannot help but ask. He does not know which type of exorcist he wants to be.

Sly mahogany gleams in the sunlight. “You know what sort,” Seiji says with an amused tilt to his mouth. “Do you think I would be friends with any other type?”

“We’re friends?”

“For now.”

He has cold, cold eyes.

—

“Does this make me a good exorcist?” Shuuichi says. His voice is hoarse and wet with fluid. A heaving cough accompanies his words. Blood splatters down his white dress shirt.

Seiji wants to spit out the blood in his mouth—his gaping mouth caught by surprise. A hot fluid runs down the curve of his cheekbones and pools in the hollows of his neck and clavicle. He kneels down on the earth where Shuuichi sprawls in an ungainly pile of limbs and blood. There is something to be said of holiness and of the divine in his actions but he is no mood for poetry. There is no poetry here. If there is, it is one he does not want to understand.

“...Seiji,” Shuuichi mumurs.

Seiji hushes him as his hands offer a feeble compress. Something hot seeps into the gaps of his fingers as he presses down on Shuuichi’s torso.

“It took my heart,” Shuuichi says.

“Stop talking. It didn’t go through your chest,” Seiji says. It is as much an assurance to Shuuichi as it is to himself. A gaping wound of the torso—surely recoverable…

“Help...won’t...come...in...time,” Shuuichi says slowly. Abruptly, his hands come up and rest down on top of Seiji’s hands. Their bloody hands connect with a slick slide to it all.

“Why are you still talking?” Seiji says.

And Shuuichi smiles a slow, devastating smile. Seiji hates the timing of it all—the inherent theatricity. The way Shuuichi has to act until the very end. Nothing is going to be alright. Why is he smiling? Even his eyes behind his glasses are limpid and lucid, none of the haze of impending death dulling them. Seiji hates this. _Him_.

“I hate you,” Seiji says as Shuuichi’s eyes finally close. As the rise and fall of Shuuichi’s chest stops. As the blood flow slows. As Shuiichi’s body cools.

* * *

**dragon (of yore)**

“I don’t see why I should fall back asleep,” the dragon says. Its voice does not boom, earthshaking, like dragons of yore. It is more insidious than that—a soft voice creeping into all the cracks and crevices of Shuuichi’s mind. The voice impresses relaxation and the temptation of rest—of surrender—upon the weary.

A lone crimson eye meets Shuuichi’s gaze. It glows in the darkness of the forest because the dragon _is_ the forest. What Shuuichi had taken as an unusually hilly forest had turned out to be the coils of a dragon. The earthquake that afflicted the region had turned out to be the awakening of a dragon. Its uncoiling had disturbed the forest and the nearby towns. The natural slowness that accompanies enormity had forestalled the uncoiling to a slower, more gentler process.

The eye blinks in the time Shuuichi takes to gather his words. He slides out of uncertainty and into certainty. Another act is no surprise in his life. The curve of his mouth and the slight crinkle to his eyes are carefully utilized.

“It would be,” Shuuichi says, “far less troublesome to sleep away the world. There are more humans than yōkai these days.”

The dragon yawns, an endless stretch of a mouth with innumerable teeth—the sort of teeth with the breadth and depth upon which a human man may easily impale himself upon. A bone-white gleam and the threat of red.

“It won’t be troublesome,” the dragon says with a dangerous calm. It invokes a raise of hair upon Shuuichi’s skin and a quickening of his heart. The dragon blinks lazily.

“I remember being human,” the dragon says.

The earth shakes.

* * *

**gods (of spring & winter)**

Who were you before spring claimed your bones?

—

Matoba Seiji dies with his eyelids torn clean off and blood oozing from vacant holes. It is an ignoble death brought forth by folly—a confidence turned into arrogance. He had lived so long without further trouble from the yōkai haunting his bloodline that he had begun to forget that he was not old at all, or at least not compared to yōkai. He is not surprised when the yōkai comes for him but he is surprised when all his power and protections fail so suddenly that it reeks of sabotage. Matoba Seiji had forgotten that even the weak could have the power to sever the tendons of titans.

When his eyes are stolen (rightfully reclaimed), he _yells_. All his vaunted composure abandons himself as pain upon pain builds within him. Hot blood coats his hands as he gropes unsteadily at his face. The blood pouring forth from his empty sockets neither clots nor stops its crimson trail. Then, there comes the point where the pain is so terrible and great that it no longer pains him.

“My eyes,” Matoba Seiji says. His hoarse voice does not echo in the forest. The world does not revolve around him. His words are lost in the sounds of life perpetuating the forest. The only listener to his last words is the yōkai that smiles slow and broad at the eyes cradled in the palms of its grotesque hands (paper-white with black claws neatly trimmed and sharpened).

The yōkai steals more than Matoba Seiji’s eyes.

Matoba Seiji dies.

The earth welcomes him—soft and muddy from recent spring rainfall. Nobody finds a decaying corpse in the forest because the forest itself enfolds him in its wooden embrace. It is the first time such a lovely sacrifice has died in its jurisdiction. The spiritual power of Matoba Seiji is a heady thing to swallow indeed. How eagerly the earth bleeds the man dry. How fondly tree roots encase him. How stunning are the wildflowers blooming from his corpse. He is a testament to spring’s power—fertile land so lush with overgrown life that it stifles.

This is Matoba Seiji: god of spring.

—

Who were you before winter claimed your bones?

—

Natori Shuuichi dies in his sleep during a long winter’s night. The wind howls through skeletal trees as snow drifts down and gleams white in moonlight. An eerie moan resounding and reverberating. The world is so cold when he slips into bed. Fabric and stuffing are nothing against nature. The coldness slips through each and every crack.

There is nobody but Natori Shuuichi ensconced in his bedding. He is alone. If this were another of his interviews, he would say, _It comes with being Unloved_. A subtle prod to buy his merchandise. Something shameless and unhidden even as he resists being known. He cannot abide by being known—by being loved. He convinces himself he needs for naught. Just let him live and all will be well.

He is a man alone as thousands of people cling to his fame. He is a man alone as his friends are more like acquaintances. He is a man alone as the exorcist community regards him and his paper trickery as a famously odd figure. He is a man alone as his family forget him and sigh in relief. He is a man alone as Matoba Seiji dies.

(They have yet to reconcile. Natori Shuuichi cannot push past his fatalism. He cannot see beyond all that which he abhors and admires in Matoba Seiji. Even as Matoba Seiji reaches out with a long-fingered hand and a sly smile…)

Alone…

The coldness finds no resistance. It burrows in deep. No need to crack open ribs to rip out the heart when the cold so easily seeps through with all the ease of ink diffusing through water. Nightmarish. Dreamlike. He does not wake up. The icy sensation does not alarm him. It makes no difference. Natori Shuuichi has long been acquainted with coldness.

Natori Shuuichi dies.

The cold steals the breath from his lungs. His breath becomes the winter wind. The cold cools his body blue. His touch becomes the winter frostbite. He becomes winter—the winter that kills.

This is Natori Shuuichi: god of winter.

—

Every step the god of spring takes, flora bloom—a verdant green carpet of grass and moss interspersed with the bloom of wildflowers.

* * *

**sentinel/guide AU**

“Another Matoba sentinel,” a man in glasses mutters to his companion. He watches Matoba Seiji glide by with a sort of smugness that grates. Nobody ever confesses to liking a Matoba without ulterior motives but in this world of theirs, they will never stop needing a Matoba. The yōkai are getting more troublesome as the years pass by and the general populace grows less superstitious.

“Sentinel?” his companion responds with a certain quirk to his mouth. “No, he’s a guide.”

The man in glasses furrows his brow as he sneaks another glance at Matoba Seiji. “That…does not seem like a man with empathy,” he says. A visible wince crosses his face as his most recent dealing with the clan head surfaces.

Matoba Seiji coolly turns his head in their direction.

He smiles.

—

A pill clatters on a table—a stark whiteness against dark brown wood. A hand gropes, utterly uncoordinated, at the pill. A little groan as the hand misses the pill.

Nanase watches unimpressed as Seiji continues to fumble at his prescription. Another migraine, she knows. Another migraine from a man who still cannot control his empathy on stressful days. Matoba Seiji is not a man who takes kindly to others’ feelings intruding on his. He is not a man meant for others.

“You can’t repress everything,” Nanase idly comments. She does not lift a finger to help. To enable Seiji’s continual failure is no act she can condone.

“Watch me,” Seiji says as he finally manages to focus and grasp the slippery pill in his hand. He tosses it back dry with his eyes never leaving Nanase’s gaze.

He smiles.

—

“You’re very talented with women,” a man says enviously. He bumps his blond companion’s shoulder as they watch a woman retreat to her group of friends. A certain sway to her hips calls for attention.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a guide,” the man continues. He waves a hand towards the retreating woman.

Natori Shuuichi hums. “Guides aren’t the only one with empathy,” he eventually says.

Enhanced senses can just as easily substitute for a guide’s empathy, he knows for certain. Through trial and error, he knows the best ways to stimulate that momentary jump in heart rate in a sign of surprise, fear, and what Natori knows most—attraction. His senses have served him well in navigating through the world.

He smiles.

—

Natori Shuuichi listens to the curses echoing from his answering machine. It’s a terrible vice of his to listen to what could be his downfall. But the curses are almost soothing in a way. The rare few that are not spoken by exorcists are his favorite.

Yōkai don’t breathe. Yōkai don’t have hearts that beat. They only speak. So quiet are they.

He smiles.

* * *

**music (dramatic piano AU)**

“I’m dying,” Seiji says. There is no passion in his voice, as if he is reciting a distant fact. He does not look at Shuuichi, seated next to him. His gaze is tilted towards the sky as he lays supine in the overgrown grass.

Shuuichi does not say a single word for a long moment. There is no shock or horror warping his features. He watches a cloud drift by in the bright blue sky. He watches clouds of birds cover the sky with raucous caws.

“How…how long did you know?” Shuuichi eventually asks. There is something painfully hopeful in the question, as if death could be a surprise for the both of them. As if Seiji did not hide this awful, wretched truth from him for so long.

Seiji hums contemplatively. It’s been so long that the timeline of it all has never been truly articulated.

“Did I ever tell you how I lost my eye?” Seiji asks dispassionately.

“No,” Shuuichi answers. His hand clenches around a fistful of grass.

“Five years old and cancer in one eye. Runs in the family apparently. They had to remove it. We thought that that was the end of it. It wasn’t, of course.”

“…Seiji.”

“I’m lucky. I thought that I was free for so many years. But it came back.”

—

Natori Shuuichi does not hate Matoba Seiji but he does not particularly like him. He’s arrogant. He’s rich. He’s handsome. Moreover, he is far too skilled at the piano.

—

“Why should I care?” Matoba asks coolly.

There is something to the curve of Matoba’s mouth and the arch to his eyebrows that incites burning anger in Shuuichi.

**Author's Note:**

> did i dump unfinished works and tried linking them together as a declaration of love through AUs? yes. thanks for reading. :)
> 
> [my writing twitter](https://twitter.com/yunmengdilf)


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